


Regret Has Never Hurt So Much

by milliewells



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-11 15:30:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/800277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milliewells/pseuds/milliewells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire, if he knew the consequences, wouldn't be able to forgive himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thinking, Painting, Regretting.

The paint splattered across the canvas, the colours fading at the edges as the substance crept onto the seemingly ancient easel. Grantaire, face strewn with tears and eyes raging in some sort of anger, stepped back to examine his mediocre work of art. He always painted when he was angry, it was the best way of channelling his emotion. And, to the great surprise of his peers, it was always his best work.

It'd been six hours now, since Grantaire had last seen Enjolras, since the final insult had escaped his drunken lips and the concluding glare had peeped though the latter’s eyes. Enjolras, as everyone knew, was the man Grantaire admired; that he cherished every golden blonde curl that caressed his face and that he adored the way his piercing blue eyes contrasted against the pale excellence that was his complexion. It brought our protagonist pleasure to see a flash of his startling red coat as he flitted around the room in a fluster of hurry. But now he thought he'd blown it all, that he'd never have the same delight in those small features again.

His eyes gazed into those that were on the canvas, those that belonged to Enjolras. Or, at least, Grantaire's interpretation of him.

He hated himself, he really did. In times of anger, sadness or euphoria, Grantaire always drew Enjolras. But this time, he'd wrecked the portrait after completion, only to see those features he adored the most. The crisp white shirt, the pressed black trousers, his firm pink lips- they were all just a blur under the wreckage of slashes from the brush.

Running a hand through his hair, the student heaved a sigh of mixed emotions. His anger -now channelled in a way he would most likely regret- had turned back to his usual state. Just there if needed, yet not enough to embarrass him.

Grantaire hated himself; he hated everything about his seemingly average form. He detested his own cynical, pessimistic attitude, the way he always saw a glass as half empty, as opposed to half full. But Grantaire's glasses were always one hundred percent of either, never a shade of grey between. He was a drunkard, a complete and utter addict. One bottle of wine always turned to two, two forever turning to three, and before he knew it, he was unconscious on the floor, remnants of the fourth litre rippling in the bottom of the bottle.


	2. The Beginning Of The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras becomes tetchy.

Grantaire leaned back against the wall, peeling off the flaky paint with his anxious fingers. He couldn't stop shaking as he recalled the night prior.

It was a normal meeting, just like any other. Grantaire was nursing a bottle of Cognac in the corner; Joly was fidgeting as he thought of the germs and pesticides that covered the surfaces of the Musain tables, and Courfeyrac was trying to get off with some girl behind the bar. And what could be said for the remaining members of Les Amis? They were all listening to what their God of War had to say.

It was all all right until Marius came in.

Marius, as always, was incredibly late - the one thing that got Enjolras tetchier than anything.

“Marius!” The blonde sighed in a matter of despair, “you’re late.” He added with a rolling of his stern eyes and a frown pursed upon his lips. Marius, all things considered, should be expected to be late. He’s seeing Cosette now, and this concluded in his head leaving for the clouds.

Cosette is a little blonde girl, of whom Marius fell head over heels for at a rally, the precise day of General Lamarque’s death. Ever since he laid eyes on her he’d become somewhat unbearable, to the great distress of his friends.

Grantaire understood Marius, as he’d fallen for a beautiful blonde of his own. Only it was probably more difficult for the cynic, as they were a person he could never love; not truly, not publicly, if one thing was for sure.

Marius was warbling excuses, excuses that Enjolras wasn’t accepting.

Attention now drew to the pair, mouths opening as though to speak, though their minds kept them silent. Even Jean Prouvaire’s lips left his flute and it’s sweet melody perched beside him, and set it toward the petty fuss. Enjolras clearly hadn’t heard the voice of The Guide prying settlement, as he continued his lecture about how Marius’s tardiness could put them behind schedule. Courfeyrac caught Grantaire’s eye, the small wink he gave instituted that the drunkard should say something.

He stood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more, comments are appreciated!


	3. Everything happens.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See title.

“Monsieur Enjolras,” the title slipped easily from his intoxicated lips. “Please do leave the man alone!” He didn’t like Marius, as such; but any sort of persiflage him and Courfeyrac arranged was gratifying for him. Enjolras then turned to see eye-to-eye with the dipsomaniac of a man, a threatening look plaguing his faultless features. “Have you something to say, Grantaire?” He raised an eyebrow in a challenging manner, something that annoyed Grantaire intensely, though did nothing but make him want to pursue the argument further.

The cynic sauntered across the room; his walk not in the slightest straight, and the provoking look he tried to obtain was but a giveaway of his sheer drunkenness. The exhale Enjolras gave was one of prominence and held a gist of despair, though his eyes showed that he was truly aghast by the movement, the fact that Grantaire had bothered to leave lolling in the chair to fully confront him. Although the act was one against him, Enjolras was impressed

“Oui, ma chérie.” Knowing that it would greatly frustrate the blonde, Grantaire stressed the endearment with porcine sarcasm. Giving the exact response he wanted, Enjolras’s face was a picture that could be painted by only Grantaire- even then, at his utmost drunkest. “Ma chérie?” He scoffed the words as he repeated them, “seriously, Grantaire?” He rolled his eyes; Enjolras hated any sort of affection. Whether the affection was serious or sarcastic; physical or verbal. It wasn’t his thing. Grantaire just nodded with a wide grin as a response to the somewhat snide reaction. “And rid your face of that smug grin. You look like a Water hog at Christmas!” 

The comment, had it been from anyone else, would not have bothered the drunkard, but from Enjolras? That was another story entirely. It hit him hard, Grantaire knew he wasn’t the prettiest picture, but not had anyone commented on it before- especially not Apollo. “For now you’re gawping,” Enjolras added. “Which annoys me incredibly!”

Enjolras’s say-so of a statement actually got a reaction. Grantaire, in a gesticulated manner, now spoke as he thought. “You know, Apollo, you’re not all you’re made out to be.” He practically spat the words that escaped him, but they were clear, completely diverse from his usual, drunken dialect. “You’re spoken about as though you’re the God you got your nickname from, but I’m now doubting the truth. I think it’s all just hearsay.” What was he saying? These weren’t the words you spoke to the man you loved, not to the person you adore, the paramour you hold in high esteem. “Is that so, ‘Aire?” The blonde ‘God of War’ was taken aback by the moderately feisty comeback. “That certainly is diverging from the norm, completely different from your usual allegiance.”  
“Because you’re generally insurgent. But that was interrupted by your idle talk toward Marius. Or, should I say, unnecessary lecturing?”  
“Grantaire, que tu es emmerdant!”  
“Don’t be so acrimonious.”  
“Vous êtes ivre…”  
“Ne pas y aller, Enjolras…”  
“Why so cagey, Grantaire, hmm? It’s not as though I’m the only one who thinks you’re filthy, drunk layabout.”

The words were like daggers in Grantaire’s heart, it was as though he could feel his alcohol-overloaded veins bursting at their seams, the blood trickling down his tobacco stained skin.

“Nothing to say?” The revolutionist asked his cynic ‘friend’, who idly responded with a shaking of his head and a weak glare from sad, doe-eyes. “Even now, you’re proving the statement!” He flailed his arms about, “how is it that a singular man can lack so much motivation to act on things?”

Grantaire froze; these had all been words he'd heard before. But this time, they hurt so much more. It felt to him as though someone had extracted a tooth for each word Enjolras said. His face was blank now, the wide eyes, the cool glare and the smug grin, all gone. For if he showed emotion, any emotion what so ever, he'd only embarrass himself further, and that was exactly the think he couldn't do. A single tear rolled down his cheek, and he took his head to his hands.

Enjolras raised his hand gingerly, a shake from his forearm to his fingertips, as though he were protecting himself, like he expected Grantaire to react violently. But he didn’t.

“G-Grantaire…” He stuttered the words; he was effectively the drunkard of the situation- the one who owed an apology. “I… I didn’t mean to…” He left the sentence unfinished, the blunder now affecting even him. He never knew how to speak to Grantaire, but that wasn’t how, and he knew that for sure. The broken man then lifted his head, a harsh look upon his unshaven face. “Didn’t mean to what?” He asked sharply, “mean to tear me apart?” Enjolras became flustered, knowing he was down right in the wrong. He ran a hand through his golden locks, a concerned look plastered across his marble face. “I didn’t think, okay? My words… They weren’t meant to be so… So harsh.” This was bizarre, for a man whom usually held many words; he’d been left speechless. “I…” he went to put an empathetic hand on the drunkard’s shoulder, though soon retreated. “…I’m sorry.”

Realistically, he should’ve accepted the apology, but something about Grantaire couldn’t bring himself to do so. He should’ve just moved on, but not now, he just couldn’t. He dug his nails deep into his rough palms, looking down at the floor, unable to make the eye contact that he usually longed for. Grantaire wanted to hurt Enjolras, hurt him hard. He wanted to show the other man how he’d just made him feel, but was unable to. He didn’t have the cold heartedness that was required to do so.

Enjolras knew he’d hit a sensitive nerve this time, and regretted it deeply. His intention was never to hurt the other, only to make him see light. Now realising they weren’t everything, he didn’t have the words to solve the problem. Words only got you so far, and in this ruckus, that wasn’t very. “ ‘Aire…” He heaved an exasperated sigh. “You don’t understand how sorry I am.” He twisted a curl around his finger, almost until it hurt. “But I have no other words to explain… Just please… Please accept it?” He was practically in plea now, but didn’t want to lose his friend. Grantaire had always been so loyal to him, and Enjolras knew that, though took it for granted. “Forget it,” he threw his hands to the air. “I’ll just go…” And with that, he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As said prior, comments are well thought of.


	4. The End, Or So To Say.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The finale.

It was a cool night, the breeze flowing quickly through the seemingly endless streets and alleys of central Paris. Enjolras fiddled about with the end of his opulent red coat, curling his hand around the plush material. He was in retrospect of the altercation he’d had moments prior. The only things he could things that he were conscious to remember were the flashing images of Grantaire’s tear strewn face, though. The chief wasn’t phased by the words spoken by himself nor Grantaire, but the affect they had given on the latter.

He had been walking about for a while, before anything struck Enjolras as odd. He’d taken a wrong turn, presumably, and was beginning to getting an ominous feel about the place. This wasn’t an alley he knew… It’s edges were tall buildings, the odd one or two possessing a Juliet Balcony, but the others perfectly straight. They were consummately parallel, yet each one appeared more ancient than the previous as he moseyed down. The cobbled ground was a toll to walk on, and could easily be fatal if one were to take a fall –or turn for the worst.

The footsteps then became prominent, eerie and, to a degree, frightening, breaking the silence prior to now. Enjolras, suddenly brought to his surroundings from his worried daze, turned to their location. A silhouette lay dim on against the worse-for-wear building. It was a man of reasonable height, a slender figure and a good posture. And, with a small cackle of a titillating laugh, the shadowed man appeared.

It was Montparnasse. Enjolras knew Montparnasse about as well of the rest of Paris did- not very well. He was a swift serial killer whom left neither traces of his homicide, nor no witnesses alive to tell tale. “Bonsoir, Monsieur.” His voice was enticing, laced with an invite, an invite only a beguiling man could deny. “A pleasant night out, is it not? One that should not be spent alone…” Complimenting the statement, he reached out a coaxing arm for the blonde to take. Knowing it’d be foolish to act other wise, Enjolras took it; falling right into the trap of the perpetrator.

A lugubrious being, was Montparnasse, though it would not guessed so. A deceiving mask of seduction hid his lust for blood and mournful attitude. Montparnasse was but a child, with an age of no more than twenty. A figure most people of his age would long to be. A handsome face was one he possessed, lips of cherries and midnight hair that fell in a charming position, with eyes that were springtime bright, they were a contrast against winter-cool career he’d chosen to take.

In the buttonhole of his threadbare coat laid a single flower, now wilted from a night on his high horse of success. The dandy man’s cravat was tied knowingly, at an angle not too obscure to be questioned, but at a noticeably differentially quirked. Though, to repel against the young image he would otherwise portray, a fine top hat stayed perched upon his head. A lone ribbon tied around it, tattered all around, and fraying at the edges.

He tipped said hat, and with the grasp of the student, began to walk in the direction he had just come from.

“Tell me, M’sieur.” He begun, keeping up the tantalizing role he played. “What’re you doing down here?”  
“I…” Enjolras was having a hard time admitting that he was lost. “I wondered down the wrong alleyway, whilst trying to find my way home.”  
“So you were lost, Monsieur?” Montparnasse knew full well that his company had gotten themselves in a fair mess. “On your own, at this time? I must say, M’sieur, that isn’t a wise thing to do now, is it?” He kept up his questioning, avoiding an inquisition of his own. Enjolras looked down at the ground, a bashful look upon his sculpture-like cheeks. “One must travel alone at least once in their life,” he tried to climb out of the hole he’d inadvertently dug himself. “And you, yourself, are out alone.” He reminded the younger man. “But I am not afraid of the dangers lurking,” the look Enjolras gave was one that requested an elaboration. “For I am the danger…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback, as usual, is appreciated.  
> Leave comments, or talk to me on tumblr: http://thecolourofdesire.tumblr.com/

**Author's Note:**

> Little bit rusty, I know. Still; comments -both positive and negative- are appriciated.


End file.
